Jedi Trials IV: Turmoil and Sacrifice
by les-etoilles
Summary: The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, QuiGon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.
1. Introduction: HoloNet Report

Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

Author's Notes: As stated before, this is the fourth and final installment in my Jedi Trials saga, and I highly recommend you read the other three stories first. However, if you do insist on continuing forward with no previous knowledge of what's happened in this alternate universe, you may ask me questions, and I will answer them (at least as much as I can without giving away the rest of the plot). For all my continuing readers, welcome back. We've had a long, fun journey together, and I'm glad to finally complete our trip.

That being said, this isn't so much of a chapter as an introduction to JT IV. If you remember correctly, we left the galaxy in a bit of a mess, and so I felt it was my duty to slowly ease us back into chaos. I've been planning to write this introduction since I started planning JT III, so I'm very glad to finally be able to post it.

And now, without further ado, Jedi Trials IV…

**Turmoil and Sacrifice**

_By Kekelina_

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**HoloNet News**  
Vol. 531 #73  
14:1:23

**BREAKING NEWS: Republic Attacked**  
_All Senators slain  
Massive casualties for Jedi_

GALACTIC CITY, CORUSCANT—Only six standard hours ago, the peacefulness of the capital of the Galactic Republic was shattered as a faceless army of millions marched upon the grand city-planet, led by ex-Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi. Kenobi, who had been pronounced dead by the Jedi High Council almost a year ago, marched half of his armor-clad troops to the Galactic Senate while a nameless, faceless accomplice led the other half of Kenobi's giant army across Coruscant to the Jedi Temple.

Devastation followed as Kenobi unleashed his troops upon the Senate after declaring his name "Lord Dementor" and claiming the galaxy as his own. Initial reports detail the brutal deaths of nearly every on-planet Senator. There has been no word yet on Chancellor Amidala's well being.

The Jedi fared little better in Kenobi's attack. After overseeing the destruction of the Senate, he arrived at the Jedi Temple to direct his army personally, and he engaged several Jedi in lightsaber combat. Both Kenobi and the remaining Jedi fled Coruscant in the waning hours of chaos, leaving behind the once-serene Temple, now a demolished mass grave for the unfortunate souls who did not survive this unprecedented attack.

Death lists for the Senate and the Jedi will be transmitted shortly.

-----

**HoloNet News**  
Vol. 531 #74  
14:1:23

**WANTED: Obi-Wan Kenobi**

One hundred thousand credits leading to the capture/death of Republic enemy Obi-Wan Kenobi. Kenobi is armed and dangerous and should not be approached except by trained professionals. If you see Kenobi or have information about his whereabouts, comm your local security office immediately.

-----

_Author's Edit: 8-21-2007_  



	2. Chapter One: Aftermath

Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

Author's Notes: Thank you to all for waiting so very patiently for this chapter while I was away. I must've been delusional while I was packing because I thought I would actually have time to write. As it so happened, I was in constant motion from the moment I arose to the moment my head touched the pillow late at night and therefore had little time to write during my vacation, which is why this chapter took an extra week to post. That being said, I also want to apologize for the shortness of this chapter, but as it is more introductory than anything else, I can find no reason to lengthen it. I fear drawing it out would only bore my delightful readers. And, as I've always stated from the beginning of this saga, I write until the chapter commands me to stop, and so this one has (though I will admit I fought with it for awhile). But enough of my blabbering, enjoy!

**Turmoil and Sacrifice**

_By Kekelina_

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Chapter One: Aftermath

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A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…

Chaos reigned.

There were no words to describe the devastation left in the wake of Obi-Wan Kenobi's unprecedented attack. Senators, Jedi, innocents…all gone by the power held in the hands of one man – one foolish young man. A Darksider.

The galaxy's greatest and most fearsome enemy.

And the Jedi had realized it too late. That was their failing. _His_ failing.

_He_ was responsible for this. The deaths, the destruction… He may not have brought his lightsaber down on anyone, no, but it was because of him that Obi-Wan had turned to the Dark Side.

And _this _was the result.

_"I'm not your Padawan! You never wanted me! TELL ME YOU NEVER WANTED ME!"_

_A long pause._

_"I loved you like a son, Obi-Wan. I'm sorry you never saw that."_

_A slap._

_"I _hate_ you."_

"I'm so sorry, Obi-Wan…" Qui-Gon Jinn mumbled into his large hands, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.

A small, green, clawed hand gently rested upon his left knee – the only one he had left since Obi-Wan had cut off his other leg – and Qui-Gon looked up to find a droopy-eared Yoda casting him a sympathetic look. So lost in his sorrows (or perhaps because of the excess of pain blockers in his system), the emotionally exhausted Jedi had forgotten that the venerable Master was in the transport with him.

"Arriving soon on Alderaan, we will be. There, receive medical attention, you will."

He nodded, "Thank you, Master," and watched Yoda hobble back to the other side of the transport, looking far more weary and old than he had ever seen him.

Soon after, the ship broke through the atmosphere of Alderaan and made its way steadily towards Bail Organa's palace in Alderaan's capital city of Aldera. He, along with Chancellor Amidala and their entourages, had been the only politicians on-planet to escape Obi-Wan's horrific slaughter in the Senate Rotunda. And although they had escaped with their lives, the Chancellor was said to be hanging in the balance between life and death, having received a direct hit from a plasma bolt to her torso.

Despite all this, Senator Organa and his wife, Queen Breha, both longtime friends of the Jedi, had opened their home to the Jedi when the Temple had first begun evacuating the younglings. They had set up a giant medical facility in the palace to host all of the wounded and had tightened security ten-fold in hopes of at least stalling Kenobi (should he arrive) long enough to evacuate.

It wouldn't be enough, Qui-Gon knew. Obi-Wan's skills far surpassed causing him to break a sweat while dispatching of security officers, no matter their skills or numbers. It was a comfort procedure, nothing more, reassurance for the palace staff and the frightened Crechelings who had yet to learn defensive measures of warfare. One such essential lesson was the Law of High Ground, and at this moment, Obi-Wan had the metaphorical high ground.

He would be happy to hear that.

Upon landing, Qui-Gon was immediately ushered into the Med Center, which was teeming with wounded Jedi, many critically injured, lying on cots or suspended in bacta tanks while their injuries (aided in part by the Force) slowly traveled the long road to recovery. Healers that survived with minor injuries worked alongside Bail's highly trained medical staff from the Aldera Universal Medcenter, sentients and droids bustling about to help everyone as fast as he/she/it could.

Not since the Jedi Civil War had there been this many wounded Jedi at one time.

All around him, friends lay dying. He could feel their Life Forces slowly ebbing away. Padme Amidala lay in the corner farthest from him, surrounded by a wall of Healers, all trying desperately to save the life of the leader of the Galactic Republic. With the Republic already thrown into this state of chaos, the death of Chancellor Amidala would sever the thin threads the galaxy was still clinging to and send it spiraling out of control.

A few beds down from the Chancellor, a Jedi Knight was quietly declared dead. The young man, a Rodian, was not a friend of Qui-Gon's. He had never spoken to him, and before this day, had never set eyes upon him either. However, Qui-Gon could still feel the vacuum his death created, widening the ominous maelstrom in the Force that so many deaths had produced.

Directly across from him, with a worried Garen Muln sitting steadfast by her side, lay Bant Eerin, unconscious and the wrong shade of color for a Mon Calamari. As he gazed sadly at the pair of friends, a pain suddenly pierced his heart like the white-hot, pulsing blade of a lightsaber. He cried out.

Bant…Anakin.

_Anakin._

Where was he?

He was dead.

Dead?

No, he wasn't dead.

_Yes, Anakin_ is _dead._

_Anakin is _dead.

Dead.

Another blinding pain as a dozen memories rushed back into his mind: Anakin's pain, the severing of the bond, Obi-Wan gloating, his Padawan's presence on the catwalk, a strange feeling of comfort…

When the turbulent pain finally subsided, he found himself on the floor, surrounded by a group of unfamiliar faces. But he didn't care. He didn't care that he was dizzy and nauseous, lying in his own pool of vomit, or that a 2-1b meddroid was demanding immediate surgery on his leg. How could he care? _Why _would he care?

He had just lost everything he had ever loved.

Nothing else mattered.

Nothing.

-----

The Other Author's Notes: If any of you are slightly confused, Qui-Gon's mind forced him to forget that Anakin had died so that he could focus on fighting Obi-Wan, otherwise the pain would've been too great and he would've been distracted while dueling.

How do you like the style of this chapter? I did it in a slightly different style than usual for an opening chapter, but I thought it worked better with everything that had transpired…flowed better. I love hearing your opinions! Don't forget to review!


	3. Chapter Two: The Predator

Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

Author's Notes: Here's another chapter for all my lovely readers. It's a bit short again, I'm afraid, and there's no Obi-Wan or Qui-Gon in it at all...but I rather like it, actually. After I finally got Olana to cooperate for me, I thought it turned out rather well. A bit of a **warning**, there's a bit of descriptive writing in this chapter concerning burning flesh and the like. I have a particularly weak stomach for burnt flesh (I can handle gore, feces, vomit, etc...but not _that_), so I ended up making myself cringe and almost gag once or twice, so if you have a similar situation to mine...watch yourself. I will not replace keyboards destroyed by vomit.

**Turmoil and Sacrifice**

_By Kekelina_

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Chapter Two: The Predator

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_The smell of burning flesh._

_The screams of the dying as they were burned alive inside their fiery tomb._

_And her, helpless. Her skin seared by the heat of the inferno, her eyes blinded by the explosion. Her own screams melting with the younglings' as the hungry flames licked at her limbs._

_The pain overtook her._

The sound of a steady _tap, tap, tap_ woke a hebetudinous, half-dead Olana Chion from her living nightmare. The memories of the explosion pounded her brain, and she moaned in protest, the sound barely a squeak through blistered lips.

_Force._ It hurt to move. It hurt to think. It hurt to _breathe._

Her skin still felt on fire, though the flames had long since disappeared, having already melted her skin off her bones, where it crusted, welding her to the durasteel floor of the hangar. It cracked with every miniscule movement she made, and had the fragile inner lining of her lungs not been liquefied by the noxious fumes of her own burning flesh, she would've screamed in pain.

"All these Jedi are dead." The voice of a soldier, on the other side of what was left of the destroyed ship, obscuring Olana from his view.

"Good. Report it to Lord Dementor," another trooper replied, though their voices were eerily similar.

"Sir, no one can find him. He's disappeared." The second soldier muttered something unrecognizable, to which the first replied, "Dead, sir."

There was a hesitant pause. "Then we follow protocol."

"Yes, sir!"

The two left the area quickly, and eventually, Olana's heart stopped racing. She couldn't stay here. Kenobi's army was still here, even if he wasn't (_disappeared?_). If they found her, they would kill her, and she hadn't just survived a raging inferno to die from blaster fire.

Stretching out with the Force, she searched for the presences of any more troops. When she was sure the coast was clear, she began to pry herself from the floor.

She was on fire again, every nerve receptor screaming out in terror. She bit her tongue to keep from doing the same. Blood dribbled from her mouth. Her skin cracked under her movements, but was reluctant to release its hold on the floor.

She was going to die, die, die, _die_.

It hurt so badly. She wanted to let go, to become one with the Force.

Her vision swam.

But the Force gave her strength, and she eventually freed herself from her crisp tomb. Prone, she scooted along the floor, fighting the pain as she crawled to one of the few ships not damaged by the explosion: a Delta-7_ Aethersprite_.

With one final burst of reserve energy, she climbed into the cockpit and let her head fall exhaustedly on the nav computer console. Where would she go? Kenobi could be anywhere, just waiting to ensnare Jedi. He could have armies set up on many different worlds…just how far was his reach?

There was only one place where she knew she would be safe…where she had been planning to go all along:

Alderaan.

Swollen fingers and wounded eyes punched in the coordinates, setting the ship on autopilot…

…for Caamas.

-----

Across the Core from Coruscant and neighboring Alderaan, Caamas was a flourishing jungle planet in the Cirius system. With one sun and a rotation period of twenty-five standard hours, it boasted a temperate climate and a landscape full of rainforests, steppes, hills, and oceans.

It was on this planet that the native, peace-loving Caamasi resided, taking pleasure in the life that teemed from the marshes and jungles.

It was also on this planet that Olana found herself crash-landed.

Having fallen asleep during the flight, she had awoken to the screaming sensors as she struggled to bring the ship into the foggy atmosphere without clipping one of the million trees in the path of her landing. Her efforts had been in vain, however, for the right wing had soundly snapped against the trunk of a rather large hardwood, sending the Jedi into an out-of-control downward spiral.

She had landed in a large tangle of low branches (upside down, she might as well add) and had fallen the rest of the way to the ground, spraining her ankle.

Anger suddenly flared to life in her. What had she done? What had any of them done to deserve this? Why had the Force allowed Kenobi to cause so much destruction? To kill so many people?

A light breeze cooled her burning cheeks, and the anger suddenly vanished, replaced by shame. She was a Jedi, even if the Order was no longer standing. She knew better than to react with anger.

She _wasn't_ Kenobi.

Suddenly, she caught a dark shape out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head stiffly toward the disturbance while reaching for her lightsaber at the same time, only to realize it wasn't with her. She had lost it in the Temple.

The shape grew closer, and there was a ripple in the Force.

A warning.

Olana scooted backwards on her hands and heels, desperate to put more space between her and the predator.

It stalked her like a nexu hunts its next meal, until it was within leaping distance.

Razor-sharp teeth bared.

Stare down.

Another light in the galaxy was snuffed out.

-----

The Other Author's Notes: I have a question for all of you: how did you like Olana? For those of you who didn't know, she was originally O-Lana, the baby that Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon, Siri, and Adi rescued from Kegan during their mission there. The story of her life at the Temple was provided through _What's the Story?_ on Hyperspace and can be found on the official Star Wars website or Wookieepedia. I'm anxious to hear your thoughts on a character that's rarely known and yet made a sudden, and rather large appearance (a whole chapter to herself!) in my story. Don't be too shy to review!

_Author's Edit: 8-21-2007_


	4. Chapter Three: Whispers and Fear

Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

Author's Notes: Congratulations to all who guessed correctly as to the identity of the OT character appearing in this chapter – Han Solo. The first reviewer to contact me with the correct answer was Elizabeth, but as I couldn't contact her (your email address wasn't working), the prize defaulted to the runner-up, Wuff. The prize was, I finally decided, getting to choose a species and name for a minor character in this chapter, so keep a look out for the character Wuff created – Sarassk the Trandoshan.

You also may have noticed that after I had decided to split up the two chapters to make them more manageable, I have now thrust them back together. I decided that had been a bad idea on my part, so here is the chapter as it was originally supposed to be read.

**Turmoil and Sacrifice**

_By Kekelina_

Chapter Three: Whispers and Fear

On the other side of the Core, a dark shape moved swiftly through dimly lit streets. Keeping to the shadows, this vile creature navigated the festering, seedy underworld of the Skids without so much as a whisper from his midnight robes.

Born from the night, he relished the seamy streets of Tyrena. Built on two sides of a river, it had been dubbed Corellia's "double city." One side of the river, closest to the famed Gold Coast, attracted the normal upper-middle class families who called Corellia home, while the other side lured the worthless, spineless, pitiful clientele that Darth Dementor searched for.

He was after one worthless, spineless, pitiful creature in particular: Juke Halar, an old criminal contact from his Jedi days who owed him quite a lot of favors. Unfortunately, the overgrown Kowakian monkey-lizard had disappeared from radar almost a year earlier, leaving the Sith with no way of contacting him. But no matter, he thought with a sly grin, one that made him seem, if anything, _less_ human. Juke had forgotten that "Ol' Ben" knew exactly where his hideout was located.

It was time for a visit.

As much as Dementor hated to admit it, as much as he _hated_ being dependent upon anybody – especially petty criminals – he needed Juke. That slimy, filthy, cowardly vermin was his only ticket to remaining hidden from the now-alert eyes of the Galactic Republic. His face was plastered all over the HoloNet, from the Core Worlds to the very edges of the Outer Rim. Warrants for his arrest had been issued; security had been increased on every planet a hundred-fold. The entire galaxy was on the lookout for him, and Juke Halar had the safe houses.

He relished the power he held, but he was not so ignorant as to think he could take on an entire galaxy.

His plan had failed…spectacularly, in fact. Instead of crippling the Republic, he had only strengthened it, and in so doing, strengthened its hatred of him. It was still running, even without its Senate and its hallowed peacekeepers.

Worst of all, Qui-Gon Jinn had escaped his grasp, as well as several other prominent members of the Order. If only he'd been a little bit quicker…spent a little less time talking and had just _killed him_.

But _no_, he had wanted Qui-Gon to know how much he had suffered; wanted him to see how spectacularly _he_ had failed…

Then Yoda had arrived and saved him from his ultimate fate. But one day, Dementor promised, he would finish their duel, and there would be nothing to stop him from taking Qui-Gon's life.

A dark voice, familiar and frightening, awoke from fiery shadows. "You are weak."

* * *

Fear.

For the first time in a long time, Darth Dementor was afraid.

The Sith did not shy away from fear as the Jedi did. They embraced it, manipulated it. It was a tool.

A weapon.

And a powerful one at that.

It was intoxicating, sensing the fear of others. A high like no sentient-made drug or drink could produce. To watch them squirm under his commanding presence, begging for mercy, was more delectable than the sweet juice from a Barabel fruit.

He reveled in it.

In his power.

But he did not enjoy being the one afraid.

The Jedi had taught him to accept his fear and release it. Their lessons had failed him when he had needed them the most. Sidious had manipulated him with his own insecurities, played on the fears trapped inside his own mind.

Fear had turned Obi-Wan Kenobi into Darth Dementor.

And now it came to haunt him again.

His Master had returned from death. Sidious, whom he had personally burnt to a crisp, whom he had no doubts about his mortality, had returned from the netherworld of the Force to haunt his mutinous apprentice.

Oh, he couldn't see him, but he could hear him – his devious whispers in the back of his mind, simultaneously bolstering and degrading him at the same time until he was no more powerful than Sidious wanted him to be. He had always played those sorts of games.

He had always been greatly fond of games.

During his captivity, he would say something to give the weak, helpless, pitiful Obi-Wan Kenobi hope, only to crush it with burning evidence of the Jedi Council's devious plot a moment later. He had received an immense amount of joy from such sadistic games. Indeed, the day of the Jedi's honorary funeral, he had been overwhelmingly gleeful.

Somehow, it did not surprise the Sith that Sidious had found a way to torture him even in death.

Or was he really dead? They hadn't discussed it much, but his former Master had made reference to _his_ old Master, Darth Plagueis, and his astounding abilities once or twice. Was it possible that Sidious could've returned and was coming after his apprentice for some belated revenge?

This, surprisingly, did not drive the spike of fear deeper into his chest.

He did not fear Darth Sidious's physical abilities, for he had already proven his superiority in that realm, but his mental finesse.

Consciously, he tightened his shields, but he doubted it would do any good.

* * *

Dementor made his way down a grimy alley full of broken landspeeder parts and rusting droid limbs. Clouds of dust were swept into the air as the hem of his midnight robes grazed the filthy duracrete. Creatures of the night scurried from shadow to shadow, their vile deeds gone unnoticed until the pale yellow of dawn cast its weak glow on the kingdom of nighttime terrors.

It was in this despicable, wretched spot that Dementor would find Juke Halar – perhaps catching the lazy, good-for-nothing Neimoidian at a hand of Sabacc, thinking he was perfectly safe from the likes of the great Darth Dementor.

How wrong he was.

With all the presence of the Sith that he was, Dementor burst into Juke's "secret" hideout, crimson lightsaber blazing, to stumble upon a very surprising sight: a rag-tag band of criminals of all different shapes and sizes lounged upon the worn sleep-couch and ratty chairs occupying the small interior of the hideout. Sabacc cards lay abandoned on the floor, while a rowdy game of dejarik consumed an entire corner. The air smelled suspiciously of spice.

At the sight of Dementor, the entire room burst out into a frenzied panic. Credits, weapons, and drugs were hastily shoved into pockets before the owners of such objects dashed disorderly for the many hidden exits in the back of the dilapidated quarters. None of the bandits tried to fight Dementor – apparently, they weren't that stupid.

A wicked grin grew at the sight of the chaos. The Dark Side of the Force sang with their terror, crashed joyfully like the rough waves on an ocean as their little hearts raced…

He Force-pulled a female Trandoshan to him and held her fast as she struggled against the Force. Trandoshans, far heavier and stronger than humans, were not used to being overpowered. They intimidated many by simply their height and reputation alone. This particular one was no exception; she cursed at him in a crude mixture of Dosh and Basic. He raised a solitary eyebrow.

"I didn't quite catch that," the Sith Lord intoned dryly. "Would you care to repeat?"

The Trandoshan obliged happily.

"Strong words for someone under _my_ mercy. What's your name?"

She hesitated, as if thinking up a believable lie. "Sarassk."

"Sarassk," Dementor repeated slowly, rolling the foreign name over his tongue. She was glaring at him, her supersensitive eyes appraising him with a mixture of anger and fear. Well, she was certainly bolder than her cohorts, wasn't she? "Where is Juke Halar?" he asked, skipping preliminaries.

"Let me go," she commanded.

He narrowed his yellowed, decaying eyes at her, putting copious amounts of Force-suggestion behind his words. "Tell me where Juke Halar is."

"Eat Hutt slime."

Anger coursed through him, rushing through his veins quicker and more furious than blood.

"Let me go," she repeated.

A devious smile graced his lips. "As you wish."

A crimson shaft of energy pierced green reptilian scales. Sarassk dropped unceremoniously to the floor.

There was a disturbance in the Force as Dementor deactivated his lightsaber and muttered "_Kriff!_" He had not foreseen this kink in his plans. This would make it harder to find Juke. He would need more –

A rustle, coming from behind a stack of plastoid crates.

His anger boiled.

An intruder.

Moving with Force-enhanced speed, he reached blindly behind the crates and pulled out an angry, argumentative, eight-year-old Human boy. The youngling, a scruffy-looking child with shaggy brown hair and filthy old clothing fought in vain against the Sith Lord's grip, clawing at the firm hold with dirty fingernails and angry punches.

Having always detested pathetic life forms such as these (especially _children_), Dementor wasted no time in securing a Force-hold around the boy's thin neck. His youthful brown eyes widened in shock as oxygen refused to fill his lungs, and the boy sank to his knees, desperate to fight off his invisible murderer.

Dementor laughed.

"Obi-Wan_…don't._"

The voice shocked him so much that he immediately released the boy, who collapsed to the durasteel floor, gasping.

The Sith turned, half-expecting to see a flash of blonde hair or the glow of an electrum lightsaber. But that was impossible. She was dead – he had killed her, watched her last breath leave her body, sent her to be with the Force. That had been _his_ doing.

_The same as Sidious's death._

Was it merely coincidence that two of his victims had returned to haunt his waking thoughts? Or was it something else? For although this sort of trick could be expected from Sidious, Siri Tachi had never been that powerful.

"Look…I didn't…hear…or see…_anything._"

Dementor tore himself from his disturbing thoughts to gaze uncaringly at the boy, who had seemingly recovered and was rising.

"You saw me, and that's enough."

His lightsaber ignited with a familiar _snap-hiss_.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait!" the boy cried, scurrying out of the way of the dangerous blade of energy. "Can't we talk about this?"

Dementor didn't reply, but stalked his prey menacingly. The boy scrambled backwards over spilled alcoholic beverages and half-smoked death sticks. He picked up a blaster and tried to shoot, only to discover that its power cell was empty.

"I won't tell anyone about you!"

He watched the boy like a krayt dragon watches it next meal. Nothing he said or did would convince the Sith Lord to spare him.

Nothing.

"I – I know someone who knows where Juke is!"

_Almost_ nothing.

Dementor narrowed his eyes viciously. "Speak."

The boy, sensing a reprieve to his sentence, began immediately. "There's this girl in Coronet – Tayss – down in the Blue Sector. She spends a lot of time with Juke. Shri – This guy I know says she was the last person Juke talked to before he skipped town."

The Sith digested this information. Here was his chance to find Juke. Surely, this "Tayss" knew exactly where Juke had been headed. Perhaps he was even still there.

"Are you sure?"

The boy eyed his lightsaber warily. "Bet my life on it."

"Good," he replied sinisterly. They would leave for Coronet at once. Though he was reluctant to go into the capital city – Coronet was crawling with CorSec – if the boy was telling the truth, Dementor would be off-planet soon enough anyway.

Besides, he had defeated the Chosen One. Should complications arise, a few security officers wouldn't be a problem.

_But you didn't kill Qui-Gon._


	5. Chapter Four: Avenged Wounds

Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay of this chapter, but I ended up rewriting a huge portion because I didn't like it. Hopefully, now it's better.

Also, for those of you who haven't noticed, I have melded the original chapter four back together with chapter three. That was how I had originally planned it, and I like it a lot better. So, if you haven't read an update in between chapter three and this one, go check out chapter three again because there's more to read.

**Turmoil and Sacrifice**

_By Kekelina_

-----

Chapter Four: Avenged Wounds

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The mood was grim as the remaining members of the Jedi High Council convened in a small, secluded room forgotten in the many in the Alderaanian palace. Only seven of the twelve had escaped Coruscant with their lives, and their eyes spoke of the horrors they had seen, of the death and destruction, and of the hopelessness they now felt.

Yoda's heart wept for them.

Beside him, Mace sighed, his eyes traveling over the empty spaces between the Jedi. A brief flash of anger swallowed the room in tense silence, but before anyone could comment, it disappeared into the Force. Silently, Depa Billaba moved next to her old Master and lay a gentle hand upon his arm.

Glancing away from the personal exchange, Shaak Ti exchanged a disheartened glance with Adi Gallia. A few empty spaces away from them, Kit Fisto's steely gaze focused on the center of their circle, as if willing someone to materialize.

Yaddle was the first to break the silence as she stroked what remained of her left ear. "Hmm, in a precarious position are we."

Yoda nodded. "Allow Dementor to continue this reign of terror, we must not."

"Security forces all around the galaxy have put out a warrant for his arrest."

"They don't know what they're getting themselves into," Adi said with an edge of bitterness. "If Dementor can wipe out the Senate and most of the Jedi, what makes them think they'll be able to catch him?"

"More innocent people will lose their lives," Depa agreed with a sad sigh, her forehead creasing around her Greater and Lesser Marks of Illumination.

_Troubling thoughts, these are…_ "Protection, they will need, if to catch him, they are. But no Jedi we have to offer."

"What about the Jedi that were off-planet at the time," asked Kit, sounding more than just a bit hopeful.

Sadly, Yoda shook his head, his ears drooping. "Heard from none, have we. Perhaps think us all dead, they do."

"And we can't risk contacting them," Mace continued. "For all we know, Dementor could have captured many of them."

"Or killed them," Kit added darkly.

Yoda eyes the Nautolan knowingly, who, under the inspection of the Grand Master of the Jedi Order, dropped his eyes and suddenly became extraordinarily interested in the patterns on the floor.

"For certain," he continued at last, "be careful, we must. Until caught, Dementor is, a danger he will always be to us. The Dark Side is strong in him," he murmured, closing his eyes in remembrance of the waves of darkness he had felt radiating from the Sith Lord. "A powerful enemy he is…strong enough, even, to defeat Anakin Skywalker and many other Jedi."

After a brief moment of contemplation, for Master Windu had always strongly believed in the prophecy of the Chosen One, he commented, "But he didn't kill Qui-Gon…he had ample opportunity before Yoda arrived, yet Qui-Gon is still with us."

"Dementor defeated Skywalker, and as strong as Master Jinn is," Shaak Ti said, "surely he cannot be more powerful than the Chosen One?"

"_Is_ he the Chosen One?" Adi asked. "After all, he's dead. How is he supposed to fulfill the prophecy now?"

That left the other Jedi in silence pondering the depths and consequences of such thoughts. Yoda, however, did not ponder such things. His thoughts strayed back to Dementor and his actions on the catwalk.

Though he hadn't told anyone – not even Mace – by the time he had arrived, Dementor had already been fleeing, leaving a wounded yet still living Qui-Gon in his wake.

What did that mean? Had something Qui-Gon said or did touched a part of Obi-Wan Kenobi buried deep beneath the putrid layers of the Sith?

Over eight hundred years ago, he had been taught that the Dark Side will always consume its host, feeding upon it until there's nothing left of the person the Sith had once been. Did that still hold true eight hundred years later?

Or was it possible that somewhere, in a tiny recess of his mind, Obi-Wan Kenobi still existed?

-----

He had died.

Died to protect _him_.

Force-pushed him aside as the thermal detonator clattered to his feet; one last brief glance between Master and Padawan before their connection was severed by a wall of fire and a burst of pain.

His eyes still haunted Tru.

They watched him as he slept, as he curled between the sheets and sobbed for the man who had been more important to him than words could describe.

He had failed Ry-Gaul.

He had failed his beloved Master.

A Padawan's sworn duty was to protect his or her Master, to make sure he or she_ didn't die._

For over a thousand years, Padawans had taken this mantle upon themselves with utmost sincerity and had upheld it with the deepest honor. Tru had been one of them, had repeated the ceremonial words to Ry-Gaul with the Council as his witness, had allowed him to braid his hair, uniting Tru's locks with his own strands as a symbol of their new-found trust.

A tear burned in the corner of his eye.

_Trust._

Ry-Gaul had trusted him.

And he had failed.

-----

Anakin Skywalker – _not_ the Chosen One.

It was a worrisome thought, but nevertheless, it had crept into Adi's mind during the Council – or what remained of it – meeting and had refused to dislodge.

What did that mean for the Order? For the _galaxy_?

Was it quite possible that the true Chosen One was still out there somewhere, or had yet to be born? Was someone waiting in the shadows to take up his destiny and strike down Dementor and restore the Republic to peace?

Or had the prophecy failed to come true?

It wasn't a rare occurrence. Many visions and prophecies failed to reach fulfillment, as the future was constantly changing. Perhaps the prophecy of the One Who Will Restore Balance was just another lost fortune, doomed to float around the universe unfulfilled forever.

"I'm sorry, but that's simply not possible."

Lost amidst her thoughts, Adi hadn't notice her feet leading her through the makeshift Med Center. While at the Temple, the Healer's Ward had been a place of calm efficiency, here it was a chaotic wreck – too many patients and too little staff. Cots were shoved against one another to make room; younglings mewled as they were briefly examined then left alone while more critical patients were treated, and distraught Masters wept openly as they held the lifeless bodies of their Padawans in their arms.

As a Jedi Master, she was used to such tragic scenes, but the sight of her family in such distress was too much. She forced her gaze away and back to the med droid that had interrupted her thoughts. It was, unsurprisingly, arguing with Qui-Gon Jinn.

The droid whirred in irritation. "Sire, you are not well enough. My programming will simply not allow – "

"I do not care what your programming allows. Now let me up."

Moving out of the way of a passing Healer, Adi was able to see that the droid had taken Qui-Gon by the arms and was holding him to the cot like a prisoner. The Jedi, though infamous for being able to retain his mask of Jedi calm no matter what situation, was clearly not happy.

Despite herself, Adi grinned.

"Sir, you are quite ill and are in no shape to – "

"I am perfectly capable of handling myself."

"My sensors indicate – "

But exactly what its sensors indicated, she never found out, for a jab of Force energy from Qui-Gon sent it flying through the air and smashing against the opposite wall.

Sighing in exasperation, Adi folded her arms and adopted her best 'stern expression,' the one Siri had admitted to having nightmares about as a Padawan. Sometimes Qui-Gon could be so difficult. "We needed that droid, you know."

Qui-Gon did not look at her. "I'm sure someone around here will be willing to fix it." After a brief pause, he added, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going for a walk." He threw off his sheets to reveal a new alloy prosthesis – a replacement for the leg Dementor had taken from him.

So that was what all this was about… "Are you sure that's such a good idea?"

"Perfectly," he intoned, but struggled to rise to his feet. She made a split-second decision.

"Fine, but I'm coming with you."

-----

_The sun of his own planetary system_, normally bright and witty Jedi Knight Garen Muln had been reduced to a depressed and heartbroken individual in a matter of a few painful hours.

How could he not?

His world had been turned upside down, his home had been desecrated, everything he loved had been torn from him, and he was sitting now by the bedside of his comatose best friend, utterly helpless.

_Very un-Jedi-like thoughts_.

But, he tried to rationalize, the Jedi were no more. So, therefore, couldn't he think whatever he wanted?

If Yoda had been around, that bothersome old troll would've whacked his shin with his gimer stick.

As it were, a medical droid flew out of nowhere and nearly smashed his brains into the durasteel wall beside him.

Garen's eyes searched for the transgressor.

Qui-Gon.

But he left with Master Gallia, and Garen's gaze soon wandered back to Bant's still form. He turned the dial on the machine next to him, and it released a vapor of mist that smelled like her: salt water and humidity.

Transferred specially from the Aldera Universal Medcenter to the palace for Bant's use, the machine was designed for Mon Calamari if they had to go extended periods of time in a dry environment. It had an automatic setting, but Garen preferred to do it manually, misting his friend with the familiar-scented moisture whenever he thought she looked a bit too dry.

It was something to do; something he could use as a cable to pull himself out of his thoughts whenever he delved to deep.

If only Bant were awake; she would know exactly what to say to make the galaxy seem right again. That had been her gift. But perhaps she would have no words this time, when the Jedi had lost everything, when one of their own had betrayed them so spectacularly…

Obi-Wan.

_Dementor._

Just his name brought a sudden flare of anger that was neither wanted nor appropriate.

To think that he had been rechristened as a Sith...

That he had shred all ties to his former life...

Had even taken up arms against his own _family..._

He took a shuddering breath.

He would _not_ give into his hate. He would not become Dementor. He –

His comlink chirped.

The anger vanished as he fumbled for the comlink on his utility belt with confused, nervous fingers. Hesitantly, he opened communications.

An uncertain, worried voice flooded his ears. "Garen?"

He choked in surprise. "Master Clee?"

"Thank the Force you're alive…"

Garen Muln was stunned into speechlessness. Of all the people he had expected to contact him (which had been, appropriately, none), he had never expected it to be his former Jedi Master, Clee Rhara.

Both excellent pilots, Clee had taken him as her apprentice after he had joined the Jedi starfighter piloting academy she had began on Centax 2. They had had a close bond during his training and had remained close even after Garen had been knighted.

"Yeah, I'm…alive. You're okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," her voice crackled through the comlink. "I've been beside myself with worry, though. When we heard what had happened on Coruscant, we couldn't believe it."

A memory clicked into Garen's head. Clee had been on a mission to Triffis to mediate election quarrels at the time of the attack. Funny, he had assumed her dead.

"Garen?" Her voice was soft, motherly.

He didn't answer. He knew what she would ask.

"We're on Alderaan," he told her instead. "Bail Organa has given us refuge."

"I'll come."

The transmission ended.

-----

To his credit, Qui-Gon didn't argue, but instead seemed resigned to the fact that he would require a chaperon. Perhaps, deep down, he knew that he needed one. Or perhaps he was simply too tired to be stubborn.

They walked the endless halls in silence, Adi absorbing the breathtaking views from the large floor-to-ceiling transparisteel windows, pretending that, for just this moment, her universe hadn't been flung into chaos.

Beside her, Qui-Gon followed her graceful steps with his own lurching footfalls. His new leg seemed unresponsive to the muscular messages he was sending it. She opened her mouth to ask if he needed help, but he beat her to it.

"Don't," he warned.

She merely raised an eyebrow. "Qui-Gon Jinn, you of all people should know the danger of not accepting help when it's needed."

As he leaned against the wall to rest, his face contorted in confusion. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"No?" she asked softly, leaning next to him. "You don't think that all this could've, perhaps, been prevented had Dementor asked for your help, instead of pushing you away?"

Qui-Gon's eyes had gone dark. "Don't call him that."

Reluctantly, she conceded. "And what of Tahl," Adi continued, digging deeper into his tragic past. Though Qui-Gon had never confessed his love for Tahl to Adi, she knew that her death had affected him deeply. As proof, he tensed beside her. "She went on that mission alone, but what if she had asked for your help? And Xanatos? He pushed you away the same as Obi-Wan."

"Stop." His voice was rough, but underneath lurked barely constrained emotion. "I don't want to hear anymore."

She shook her head. "I think you need to."

The maverick Jedi glared at her. She was unfazed. "Why?"

"To remind you."

"Remind me of what?"

Adi turned to him, her face solemn and her eyes serious. "That none of this is your fault."

As expected, he began to argue, but she held up her hand in silence. "I know what you're going to say, and I know what I'll say, and we'll continue in one giant circle, so please, my friend, let me say what I have to say. You don't have to listen to me, but I ask you to hear me."

Taking his continuing silence as her cue, she continued. "Obi-Wan has been hurt by many people in his life – not just you, not just Anakin, but by the Jedi, me, Siri. He's bottled up all that hurt over the years because he was too proud and too angry to ask for help releasing it. But now, he has no more room left, and all his emotions have exploded from him in a gigantic path of destruction, and he's turned to the only thing he thinks can help him release those emotions: revenge.

"You are not the only victim of his warpath. He has set special sights on you, yes, because you were his Master, but Obi-Wan is out to do harm to anybody and everybody who has ever betrayed him. And so far, he has managed that goal fairly well. Anakin, Siri, and most of the Jedi are dead."

Qui-Gon furrowed his eyebrows. "I thought Siri was killed by Palpatine…"

She forced an ironic smile. "Do you really think that's what happened? I don't. Palpatine had no reason to kill them..." She shook her head. "No, Obi-Wan killed them both. I think he killed Ferus just because he was in the way, but Siri…Siri wounded him, pushed him away. Pretended like nothing had ever happened between them."

"He was heartbroken," Qui-Gon murmured in remembrance.

Adi sighed uncharacteristically. "They both were."

-----

The Other Author's Notes: Hmm, I actually quite like this chapter. We finally caught up with the Jedi a bit more, as they're struggling to recover; we learned a couple things, delved a little deeper into some minor characters. I'm very pleased. But are you? That's the question. Let me know…and tell me what you think's going to happen next. Until next time!

_Author's Edit: 8-21-2007_


	6. Chapter Five: The Means to an End

-1Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

Author's Notes: Hello everyone! Contrary to popular belief, I am not dead. I just developed a bad case of writer's block, and as a result, I have been working on this chapter for almost two months. I cringe at the thought. But that's not all I've been doing…

When I first began this story I had to make a decision regarding Obi-Wan. When the time came to turn him to the Dark Side, would I still call him Obi-Wan or would I call him by his Sith-given name? I chose the former for a number of reasons, but since then, the choice has been haunting me. So, since my absence, I have gone back through, starting with chapter sixteen of Torture and Death, and replaced all mentions of Obi-Wan with the name Dementor, unless it was necessary, for the stories' sake, to keep it Obi-Wan. I think it works a lot better.

**Turmoil and Sacrifice**

_By Kekelina_

-----

Chapter Five: The Means to an End

-----

"Over there!"

"Blast 'em!"

The hum of a single blade of energy.

They fell like a child's unsteady tower of plastoid blocks.

As did Han's jaw.

Young Han had seen many things in his few, yet experienced, years of life - including a demonstration of Dementor's powers at Halar's hideout - but he had never seen _anyone_ dispatch of two CorSec officers with such…

…_Ease._

He had barely flicked his wrists, yet the plasma bolts had deflected back to their sources, rendering their owners incapacitated. If Han had blinked, he would've missed it.

Like he missed the glint in Dementor's eyes as he stalked back toward the youngling, not realizing that he was fingering the activation button on his lightsaber until it was ignited and at his throat, the heat from the energy beam searing his skin.

Then all thoughts fled from his head.

"Compromised me like that again," he hissed, bloodlust filling his festering yellow eyes, "and I won't hesitate to dispose of you in the most foulest and painful method possible."

Han, eyes wide, tried to free himself from the Insane One's grip, but Dementor tightened his hold on his arm until his nails were digging into raw flesh through the cloth of his shirt, nearly drawing blood, and their faces were so close that the eight-year-old could feel his hot, sticky breath on his cheek.

"Do I make myself clear?"

"Yeah."

"Good," replied the Sith briskly. "Then let's continue."

-----

Their destination led them straight through the heart of the Blue Sector, Coronet's "rough part of town." Cantinas and tattoo parlors, with signs that looked wounded from recent blaster shootouts, lined the streets, enticing possible customers with flashing lights and promises of good times.

Behind Dementor (and off to his left) sat Treasure Ship Row. One of the biggest tourist attractions in Coronet (for reasons Xenologists still couldn't decipher), the bazaar was loaded with anything any sentient being in any galaxy could possibly and conceivably want…ever.

Especially if it was illegal.

But they were not headed towards The Row. Han continued to lead him through dirty, twisting streets filled to the brim with filthy, drunk, and high sentients, some begging, some being mugged, some…ignoring. Dementor was among the last group, his black robes billowing at his heels as he bypassed all the traffic on the street without as much as a meaningful glance. They didn't matter to him; they were no better than space trash.

"Stars, Obi-Wan…you were so compassionate."

In less than a standard millisecond, his lightsaber was activated and arching around his body…

…to slice _air_.

He stared at the empty spot where his lightsaber pulsed, the scent of frying ozone detectable. Sentients shirked away from him in fear, disappearing down hidden alleys and dark doorways. Next to him, Han backed away slowly.

But…he had been so sure…

There _had_ been someone right behind him.

He had heard her.

But the space was as devoid of Siri Tachi as it had ever been.

Cursing, he extinguished his lightsaber and clipped it back onto his utility belt. But his eyes never left that spot, as if willing her to reveal herself.

But that was impossible. This whole thing was kriffing _impossible_. Dead people could suddenly materialize, say something, then disappear before he could catch them…

"Can they?" he whispered.

"Hey, uh, Dementor?" Han said warily. He turned, trying hard to disguise how rattled he was. "It's through here." The boy pointed down a narrow alley.

"Right."

His mind elsewhere, unable to clamor back to the grimy reality of the present, he allowed Han to lead him through the filthy and most likely disease-ridden alleyway, an absolute stereotype of underworld streets. They did not stop walking until they reached an equally dirty, weather-worn door, whose very dented durasteel frame spoke epic tales of its long and exciting (albeit dangerous) life in this dank, festering lane. It did not, however, give Dementor any clues as to what lay behind it.

But his curiosity was shortly remedied…

They entered without knocking, and as soon as he recovered from the initial shock, his hand was at Han's throat.

"You brought me to a _brothel_?"

For that was indeed their location, standing in a dim hallway in the back between two _very_ thin walls, one of which he was using to pin Han against, his hand not choking him, though aching to do so.

But Han did not have a chance to explain, for Dementor's anger, out of place in a house that was surprisingly serene, had attracted the attention of one of the prostitutes - a young, scantily-clad Mirialan female. Without any pretense, she walked up between the two and pressed two kissed on Han's dirty, sweaty cheeks, which the boy hastily wiped on his sleeves, blush spreading across his face.

"Don't do that!" he whined, making a face.

The girl laughed in a tinkering sort of way, though her eyes, heavily lined with kohl and other products that women insisted on torturing themselves by applying to their faces, were traveling rather ravenously over Dementor's body. The Sith Lord, who had been forcibly pushed out of the way upon her arrival, stood immobile with his arms folded imposingly across his chest, daring her to try something.

"Han, it's just too much fun. Now…who's your friend?"

She slid closer to Dementor, her fingers delicately coming up and around to trace his shoulder muscle with all possible gentleness. He had no doubts that this was a very popular and successful brothel.

"Oh, yeah," Han mumbled, watching the exchange with a disgusted look on his face. "His name's Dementor."

"Dementor, hmm?" she said with a seductive smile. "I like the sound of that. Well, Dementor - "

"It's _Lord_ Dementor," he corrected.

"Even better. So strong. Well, _Lord_ Dementor, my name is Tayss D'ji. And now that we've gotten better acquainted," she said in a sultry voice, her hands beginning to travel down the length of his torso. He struggled to keep his body from reacting and narrowed his rancid eyes at her. "Perhaps you'd like to get more comfortable? We have several rooms that would be more than accommodating.

"I am not a customer, you mynock hatchling," he growled, throwing off her advances and pushing her against the opposite plasteel wall.

Immediately, Tayss's mood soured, and in a move that mirror Dementor, she crossed her arms. "You're not a customer? Well, then what are you here for because, honestly, I have to get back to work."

The scruffy-looking kid stuck his head up. "He wants to know where Juke is."

For what felt like a good five minutes, there was silence.

Then:

"Oh."

Silence returned.

The prostitute and the Sith engaged in a staring match, as if their wits alone would decide the outcome of their confrontation. But Dementor did not have time to play silly little school girl games, and in a move that was far too _Jedi_ for his liking, he conceded, wrapping his black robes around his frame and fixing her with an incurably bored glare.

"Well, are you going to tell me?"

Tayss remained aggravated. "Why should I?"

"I can assure you that you will be well compensated," he coerced. Credits really did make the planets revolve.

The girl smiled wickedly. "Better than the Republic can pay me for turning you in?"

He let a beat pass with a blink of his festering eyes, then matched her smile, letting it grow on his face slowly, like a highly viscous liquid trailing down an incline. Within him, he felt the Dark Side laughing at her foolishness.

"And what makes you think you'll get that chance?" His voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but within it swam power - his power - the power to take life away, and with each word he spoke, he took a step towards her, emphasizing his brutality subtly. "For if you don't help me, there is no where you can run, no one you can go to for help. I will hunt you down, and I will find you, and I will kill you. Do you think you are smarter, or quicker, or stronger than the Jedi?"

She hesitated. Dementor was positive he had made his point.

But then, "No place I can run, huh? Then why is it you need me to find Juke?"

His blood boiled, and he almost reached for his lightsaber right then and there.

But, _kriff it_, he did need her. She was the means to his end. And, by the Force, the ends were all that mattered.

With a smile that claimed victory, Tayss led Dementor to a room off to the side of the hallway while instructing Han to pester Dazar for food because he looked "like a Cthon."

Like the rest of the brothel, it was dimly lit, but instead of having a sleep-couch as Dementor had suspected, there was a table and a couple of chairs. It was obviously a gathering place for the occupants of the house on slow days.

He took a seat as if it was his own, but Tayss, ever the seductress, sat on the table in a provocative position. Had Dementor not been a stronger man, the invitation would've been very tempting.

Just as she wished it to be…

"Pay up," she demanded.

Reluctantly, he tossed the credit chips onto the table.

She glanced at them for the briefest of moments. "Not enough."

He arched his eyebrow. She laughed. "C'mon, you _said_ you would compensate me."

Tilting his head to the side to think about this, he nodded. "Yes, I _did _say that." In the blink of an eye, his lightsaber was out and activated.

Dementor, now standing, ready to attack but not in an offensive position, pointed his pulsing crimson blade at her. Finally, he saw fear flicker through her eyes. "But how about," he continued, "you tell me where Juke is, and I let you live?"

She nodded quickly, to which he smiled and deactivated his lightsaber. The threat having been eliminated, Tayss's bravado returned, as she scooted closer towards him and played with the hand he had resting on the table.

"Big weapon," she murmured throatily, the slightest of smiles on her lips. "What else on you is big, I wonder?" Her eyes dipped downward, then back up to meet his fetid Sith eyes, and she laughed.

"Where is he?"

Heaving a dramatic sigh, she rolled her head back. "He went to Nar Shaddaa," she told the ceiling.

Dementor's brow furrowed in surprise. "Nar Shaddaa?"

"When he came to see me, all he kept talking about was how he had to get out of the Core, that if they could get Jettster, then they could find him too, that he - "

"Wait," Dementor interrupted, recalling a name from the past. "Jettster…You mean _Dexter_ Jettster?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe…"

Dexter Jettster, better known as Dex, had owned a greasy spoon in Coco town named Dex's Diner. He was also the reason, in a way, that Dementor was now sitting here talking to Tayss. As a Jedi informant and a good friend of Obi-Wan Kenobi, Dex had been visited by the young Knight many times over the years. The last time, in fact, he hadn't come back, for he had been ambushed by Jango Fett in the diner and taken to Korriban where he had been imprisoned, tortured, and rebirthed as Darth Dementor.

The rest was history.

"Anyway," she continued, "he said he was going to hide under the protection of a Hutt - oh, _kark_, I can't remember the name…"

"You'd do well to," he warned darkly.

"It's, uh…It started with, uh - uh…Pap? No, no. Pop - Popara? Yeah," she nodded. "Popara the Hutt."

He filed the name into his memory and smiled in such a way that even Master Yoda, perhaps the only Jedi who could claim to have seen it all, would've retched at the sight. At this moment, no trace of light could be found in Darth Dementor, for what he was about to do, the horrific action he was about to partake in _again_, did not reside in the light.

_Murder._

-----

There was the hum of a lightsaber and then a scream from the other side of the door. Darth Dementor, Dark Lord of the Sith, stepped out a moment later, pocketing a few credits. Han was waiting for him, practically bouncing in anticipation. Dementor ignored him.

The Dark Side was still singing its sweet song after the death of his latest victim, and he could hardly be bothered to care about the troublemaking runt any longer.

After a moment or two of silence as the boy tailed him down the alley, Han spoke up. "So where are we going?"

Abruptly, Dementor turned on his heel, almost causing the kid to run into him. "_We_ are going nowhere. _Your_ usefulness to me has run out. Now leave."

"But I - "

"Leave."

"You can't just leave me here," Han protested.

The Sith Lord began walking away briskly.

"You need me."

The eight-year-old tried to keep up, but his legs were too short. "You need me!"

All alone staring at Dementor's retreating back, Han would never admit that those were tears trailing down his dirty cheeks.

-----

The Other Author's Notes: Let me know what you thought by pushing that little blue button in the corner…


	7. Chapter Six: Light and Love

Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

Author's Notes: I'm terribly sorry for the long delay. I hope this chapter makes up for it.

**Turmoil and Sacrifice**

_By Kekelina_

Chapter Six: Light and Love

* * *

"Have you seen the latest reports from Coruscant?" Depa Billaba's gentle voice wafted over the Nautolan, immediately calming him. It was a gift she had always carried, being one of the most enlightened Jedi alive.

_Not that that means much anymore…_

He waved off the datapad she held out in offering. "Yes." He turned from the window to face her, but his amphibian face lacked its trademark grin. It had lacked it for some time now.

"The death toll is catastrophic." Depa sighed, allowing pain to bleed through her shields.

Kit shrugged, the only response for which he had energy. "What did you expect," he bit back before he could stop himself. "They're noncombatants fighting soldiers. Well-trained soldiers," he added, to himself.

He, too, was troubled by the HoloNet reports from Coruscant. They spoke of blood and carnage, of innocents dying as they fought to protect their homes from the beastly grips of Dementor's grand army. No one knew if the helmeted soldiers were under orders from Dementor to do so - no one knew where he was - but every day they gained progress, little by little taking ground, spreading out and down like a raging fire until soon, every level would be completely over-run.

Depa moved to the window, her face illuminated by the waning sunlight, and said with conviction after a thoughtful pause, "They need someone to lead them."

Kit's obsidian eyes regarded her carefully. He was no stranger to the path this conversation had taken. The Council had been debating this matter since the first report from Coruscant had detailed the genocide of the once-grand city-planet. And by debating, he meant arguing, for that had become the latest custom of their council meetings. Their current…_situation_ had left them all too tense and worried to come to conclusions without some emotions leaking through.

Jedi or not, they were only sentient.

"Like a Jedi?"

Depa met his gaze. "Yes."

He nodded slowly. "I agree."

* * *

The quickening of a pulse.

The fluttering of eyelids.

And suddenly, brown orbs fearfully scanning unfamiliar terrain.

Supreme Chancellor Padme Amidala was awake.

* * *

Across the makeshift medward, Garen Muln watched as the Chancellor was poked and prodded by Healers. He shook his head. Stars, she had just woken up from a coma, yet they insisted on crowding around her like a pack of nexu around a carcass, testing her and monitoring her for Force-knew-what.

Even esteemed Master Yoda could barely get a word in edgewise.

Half a smile crept onto the young Knight's face, but it was quickly vanquished as he was brought back to cold reality by the steady _beep!_ of the monitor beside him. He gazed down at the pale salmon-colored skin of his best friend and sighed.

_Wake up_, he begged. _Please, Bant…_

"I won't be surprised if the Healer's send her back into another coma," a familiar voice remarked.

For the first time in weeks, a true smile graced his face, and as he turned to greet his former Master, Clee Rhara, he collapsed into her arms like a young Padawan.

And she, as always, caught him.

* * *

The familiar _tap, tap_ of stick on stone alerted Qui-Gon to the arrival of a visitor. The Jedi Master, who had been trying (and failing) to meditate, rose to his feet, though his new mechanical appendage protested, and waved open the door with a small measure of the Force.

On the other side, much to his chagrin, stood Yoda. "Ah, Master Qui-Gon, enjoying your new quarters are you?"

"They suffice," he answered plainly as he waved the Council member into the new housing unit Bail Organa had provided. "It is certainly better than the Med Center."

Yoda made a sound half-way between a grunt and a laugh as he settled himself into one of Qui-Gon's chairs. He remained standing however, a subconscious message to the Jedi Master that he did not expect him to stay long. Yet Yoda looked perfectly content in the chair as an awkward silence fell between them, while Qui-Gon, who had preached patience endlessly to all of his Padawans, began to fidget.

Finally, he could stand it no longer. "Tea?"

A small, green claw waved him off. "No, no. Something important I have to tell you, Qui-Gon. Yes, something important. Sit you must."

For a moment, the maverick hesitated, then recalling just how many times Yoda's cryptic wisdom had helped him in the past, he sat down across from the Grand Master of the Jedi Order.

The venerable Master sighed deeply, his ears seeming to droop in pain. Finally, his large green eyes met Qui-Gon's, and the Force seemed to flow around them like a gently bopping lake.

"Drive out darkness, darkness cannot; only light can that do. Drive out hate, hate cannot. Only love."

"Master?"

"Many things have I seen, Qui-Gon, many things. But this…" He sighed despairingly and shook head. "Wrong we were," he muttered softly. "Destruction it caused. Suffering." His large green eyes pointedly met the Jedi's. "_Hate_."

As the meaning of the conversation dawned on him, anger boiled up inside him; he quickly dampened it, breaking his gaze and clenching his fist in a rare physical expression of emotion.

With a knowing "hmm," Yoda slid out of the chair, his lips pursed in quiet musings. Qui-Gon remained tense with anger, but when the soft footstep stopped at the door, his head turned to find the Jedi Master gazing sadly at him. "Know you what I say is true, Qui-Gon," he said.

* * *

Nar Shaddaa hummed with the Dark Side of the Force.

He had felt that before he had even stepped off the transport onto the festering, filth-ridden home felons and refuges, slaves and crime lords. It roared through his veins like a raging river of hate, feeding his own emotions festering inside of him.

The toxic environment only added to the dark aura of the Smuggler's Moon. And if that didn't warn the do-gooding citizens of the Republic to stay away, then the inhabitants would. No one came to Nar Shaddaa unless they were on the run…or looking for someone.

And Darth Dementor just happened to be doing both.

It was not hard to locate Popara the Hutt amidst the muck and grime of what had been dubbed "Little Coruscant." The Hutt had built a rather large financial empire over the years and lived in an ornate, sky-scraping spire among the putrid chemical clouds with the rest of the ever-rising skyline.

But apparently money couldn't buy everything. His guards had hardly been a challenge…

"Ah'chu apenkee?" the slimy sack demanded in a booming voice as the Sith Lord swaggered in nonchalantly. His noxious eyes gazed the room in a matter of seconds and finally rested upon three Twi'lek slaves gathered around Popara's mass of drudge as if he could protect them. A sinister smile curved his lips. The slaves were Force-sensitive. How interesting…

"I'm a friend…for now," he answered in Basic, the hint of a threat in his words. "I'm looking for someone, and it's to my knowledge that he's here."

"Coo?"

"Juke Halar."

Popara laughed deeply again, his tail twitching in amusement. Dementor, however, did not take kindly to being mocked, and a solitary eyebrow raised in dangerous tolerance. "Soong peetch alay."

"And why's that?"

The explanation that followed went so quickly and was far too complicated for Dementor's meager learnings in Huttese to translate it all himself, but from the sounds of it, Popara was not happy with Juke. Oh no, the adjectives that had been interjected were definitely not the friendly sort.

"I didn't quite catch all that. He…_left?_"

"Tagwa."

_Kriffing piece of_ -

"How long ago?"

Popara replied in Huttese, "A few standard months ago."

Red clouded his vision as spikes of anger shot through his body. He allowed it to tense his muscles until it became difficult to breathe. He had hit a dead end; Juke could be anywhere in the galaxy by now. But he swore on the Force, that when he found that son of a bantha, he would murder the Neimoidian slime ball in the blink of an eye. He was tired of playing this game.

A door to his left slid open and two slightly smaller, yet no less slimy Hutts crawled through with a blast of familiarity. Within the Force, Dementor could _feel_ the smaller of the two and knew he was Force-sensitive as well. He harbored dark emotions beneath his flabby face; they roiled in captivity. How Dementor longed to set them free…

" - and these are my exalted sons," Popara was saying in Huttese, "Zonnos Anjiliac Priare and Mika Anjiliac Chiera."

The Force-sensitive, Mika, flared in annoyance within the Force. After a brief, thoughtful pause, Dementor smiled wickedly.

"O Great One," he began with more than a hint of sarcasm, "since my searches have brought me to an impasse, I require a place to stay until I can continue my search for Halar."

"Nobata."

The Sith Lord's cruel yellow eyes, crusted red with the blood of his many victims, narrowed dangerously. He waved his hand. "You will give me a place to stay."

Popara repeated him.

He waved his hand again. "You won't tell anyone that I'm here."

Again, Popara repeated him.

Satisfied, Dementor smiled, and so pleased with himself, he ignored the slight disturbance in the Force.

* * *

The Other Author's Notes: Just a couple random notes:  
- The quote about light and love that Yoda tells Qui-Gon was actually spoken by Martin Luther King, Jr. I fell in love with it, thought it fit perfectly, then translated it into Yoda's syntax.  
- Forgive me if the Huttese isn't perfect; I have never claimed to be fluent. The translations are as follows:  
-_"Ah'chu apenkee?" _- Who are you?  
-_"Coo?"_ - Who?  
-_"Soong peetch alay."_ - It's too late.  
-_"Tagwa."_ - Yes.  
-_"Nobata."_ - No.

Don't be afraid to review!


	8. Chapter Seven: Destiny

Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

Author's Notes: Gasp – is it – is this a new chapter? Can it possibly be? I'm terribly sorry, my friends, for abandoning this story for such a long time. I have no excuses – well, I have a few excuses, but I shan't bother you with them. Enjoy this newest installment!

**Turmoil and Sacrifice**

_By Kekelina_

Chapter Seven: Destiny

* * *

"How is this possible?"

"You of all people should know better than to focus on the how and why, Master." The pale, blue figure of a ghostly Anakin Skywalker grinned cheekily.

Qui-Gon Jinn's heart burst. Standing before him was the young man he had loved as a son, and tragically lost to the anger and hatred of the Sith. In that instant, when he had felt Anakin fall to the vengeance of the Dark Side, when the strength of their bond had been brutally and viciously torn from him, Qui-Gon had become a different man, a lesser man, a shadow of the great Jedi he had once been. He was only human, after all. And the loss of his third and final Padawan to the measures of the Dark Side had been too much.

Far too much.

Since then he had walked the halls of Alderaan as a shell of his former self, same in appearance but deeply and regrettably scarred on the inside. Lost, and searching for something that could not be found.

Yet here it stood in front of him, smiling and laughing as if nothing had ever happened, as if he wasn't –

"I've missed you." The words stuck to his throat, coming out harsh and fragmented.

"I know," Anakin replied. "I've been watching you. Watching…all of _this_." The disgust in his voice was evident, a flickering memory of a young, impudent Anakin.

"Watching?" Qui-Gon asked, the simplest of a thousand questions he wished to speak.

"Master, I have something I need to show you. It's…" The young ghost fidgeted. "It's a possible future – a What-Could-Have-Been." Anakin, despite being an apparition of the Force and despite having been gone for weeks, looked ashamed. "You won't like it."

The darkness in his voice halted Qui-Gon's curiosities, and suddenly, in a blur of color and light and sound, his consciousness was ripped from his body and transported to a time much different than his own, with people who were so very familiar, yet achingly different…

_A dying Master's last wish…_

"_Promise…Promise me you will train the boy."_

"_Yes, Master."_

Flash.

_A newly-minted Master discovering that patience is bred, not born…_

"_I hate it when he does that."_

Flash.

_A first taste of the Dark Side…_

"_I killed them. I killed them all…"_

Flash.

_The beginning of the end…_

"_Begun, the Clone Wars have."_

Flash.

_The temptation to walk the dark path painfully denied…_

"_You kill without thought or feeling…but I am not you."_

Flash.

_Tensions mounting with every false pleasantry…_

"_Ah, 'The Negotiator' – General Kenobi, we've been waiting for you."_

Flash.

_Long-patient darkness finally latching onto its prey…_

"_Is it possible to learn this power?"_

"_Not from a Jedi."_

Flash.

_Despair as the dragon struggles to claw free…_

"_Something's happening. I'm not the Jedi I should be. I want _more_, but I know I shouldn't."_

Flash.

_The vile smile of victory…_

"_Henceforth, you shall be known as Darth Vader."_

Flash.

_The Force's grief song as one of its own betrays…_

"_Master Skywalker, there are too many of them. What are we going to do?"_

Flash.

_A pain far too excruciating to bear…_

"_Padme, I _must_ find him."_

"_You're going to kill him, aren't you?"_

Flash.

_Jedi against Sith. Master against Padawan. Brother against brother._

"_You were the Chosen One! It was said that you would destroy the Sith, not join them! Bring balance to the Force, not leave it in darkness!"_

"_I HATE YOU!"_

"_You were my brother, Anakin! I loved you."_

As the echoes of Anakin's blood-curdling screams shrank back into the darkness of his mind, along with images of a time that he would never, never be able to forget, Qui-Gon could only shake his head in horror.

"Why have you shown me this?"

Shame and silence answered him.

"Why?" Qui-Gon repeated harshly, as the faces, voices, and emotions replayed unwillingly in his mind's eye, from Obi-Wan's suffering to Anakin's anger and everything in between.

"Because you need to understand, Master," the ghost of Anakin Skywalker replied seriously, now seeming far more aged than before. "I'm not proud of what I showed you; Stars, to think I could've murdered all those Jedi, all those _younglings_…" His blue form shuddered, the light intensifying with the motion. "But I didn't. I resisted the Dark Side. Somewhere along the road, I changed the future, changed _my _future.

"But by doing that," he continued, "everything else changed as well. The Force _needed _someone to turn, Master, and when I didn't…" He shrugged. "It found Kenobi."

There was a pause, then "That's outrageous."

"I'm just telling you what I know," Anakin shot back.

"You expect me to believe that the Force _willed_ this? That it willed a Temple full of Jedi to perish at my Padawan's hands? That despite the future always being fluid and changeable, as we are taught from the Crèche, there are some things we _just can't change_?"

"Destiny," he replied softly.

"No," Qui-Gon replied bitterly. "I cannot believe that. I cannot believe that the Force would be so cruel as to demand either you or Obi-Wan as a sacrifice for some pre-conceived destiny. No." His voice shook with barely concealed outrage as he slipped dangerously close to anger. "Why you? Why Obi-Wan?"

The ghost hesitated. "Because he didn't resist. At least, not enough. The Force only needed one being to turn, one strong enough to potentially destroy the Jedi, one strong enough to fight – " he shrugged, "or destroy – the Chosen One."

"Balance," the Jedi supplied stiffly.

But the Chosen One shook his head, his answers, which had been so certain before, now seeming less confident. "I don't know. I don't _think_ so. The Force won't reveal any more to me, except that Kenobi needs to be confronted again."

"And how shall you accomplish that now? You're dead."

Anakin scowled. "Well, Master, that's where you come in."

It took all of thirty seconds for Qui-Gon to reply. "No."

"Qui-Gon – "

"No," the maverick repeated, indignation stiffening his limbs, before being released into the Force, leaving only stubbornness behind. "I will not kill Obi-Wan. Not even for you. Not even…"

"For the galaxy?"

Qui-Gon huffed, but did not answer, and the disappointed ghost of Anakin Skywalker, having fulfilled his duty, quietly disappeared.

* * *

"Watch out!"

Coruscant HoloNet Headquarters had never been busier. War raged inside and out as datapads and blasterfire flew through the air. Journalists raced through the floors, up and down turbolifts and stairwell after stairwell as they all fought to give the rest of the galaxy a taste of the horror happening on the streets of Coruscant.

Field operatives with battered vidcams returned with haunting images and disturbing tales of Dementor's Army mercilessly destroying all in its path, from the elderly Snivvian too slow to evade an explosion to a group of young sentient teenagers passionately fighting back with their own makeshift weapons, only to be demolished by the fire of a DC-15 blaster rifle.

Death had claimed so many lives already; taking back Coruscant seemed like a lost cause now. Already, millions had fled the city-planet, and more had escaped to the deepest levels, hoping to remain safely hidden as war raged above.

Fear and hopelessness was beginning to tighten its grip.

But still there were those who fought, and therefore, there were those who reported. Tekn had never expected to find himself in the middle of a war zone when he became a comm technician. Dumb luck had led him to the galaxy's premiere news channel after a long and grueling job search, but now, he reflected, he wouldn't mind unemployment.

He wouldn't mind it one bit.

An explosion rocked the building. Tekn grasped the nearest immobile object and clung to it for dear life as bits of durasteel fell from the ceiling and walls that were normally solid swung from side to side. Shrieks echoed around him, and for a moment, everyone stopped, and wondered if this was the end of their short lives. Then the rattling ceased, and everyone was up and running again as if nothing had happened.

"Tekn!" Rel Nacesor's voice boomed over the flurry. "Transmission from Nar Shaddaa. I think you better hear this!"

And he was off, zigzagging across the frenzied office to a smaller side room, where Rel stood with a comlink, impatiently thrusting it into his webbed hands.

"HoloNet Headquarters," he answered as politely as possible, given their situation.

"_Achuta_," a heavily accented voice replied. "I am the Great Mika Anjiliac Chiera. I have information on the whereabouts of Galactic enemy Darth Dementor."

Suddenly, the room seemed to grow eerily silent, as the noises from the battle shrank into the background, inconsequential to what had just been said. Here was their chance to save the galaxy, to stop the murder of millions of innocent sentients – right here, at the other end of the transmission. He caught Rel's eyes as he flipped on the recorder and saw in them what he knew was in his own: hope.

"Could you repeat that one more time?"

"I know the location of the Sith Lord you seek. I will release this information for the worthy sum of three million credits."

Tekn choked. "Where the kriff am I supposed to get that kind of money? If you haven't noticed, we're a little bit preoccupied with a war right now."

"Ah," the voice laughed. "That is exactly why you will help me, because then I will help you. You see – "

Suddenly, there was an electric hum and a strangled shriek, then a silence so sudden it startled Tekn more than the scream.

"Hello? Hello, are you still there?"

Fear began to crawl up his spine. The hum in the background had sounded eerily similar to the hum of a lightsaber, and didn't Sith use lightsabers too? Wasn't that Dementor's weapon of choice? Hadn't he –

"I know you know where I am," a suave, cultured voice spoke calmly. "And all I have to say to you is this: catch me…if you can."

The transmission dropped.

Slowly, the astonished technician turned wide eyes to his assistant, who stared back in similar fashion. "W-Where did you say that comm came from?"

Realization spread across his face like light from a glow lamp. "Nar Shaddaa."

They had him.


	9. Chapter Eight: The Will of the Force

Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

Author's Notes: I apologize extensively for my long hiatus, and hope that this chapter makes up for it. Enjoy!

**Turmoil and Sacrifice**

_By Kekelina_

Chapter Eight: The Will of the Force

* * *

"_I know you know where I am, and all I have to say to you is this: catch me…if you can."_

Darth Dementor's words were being broadcasted across the HoloNet almost instantaneously, the taunting statement of the Sith Lord echoing throughout every home in the galaxy. Panic gripped the hearts of every living sentient in the crumbling Republic, and collectively, they held their breaths.

Who would take up Dementor's call and end this war?

On Alderaan, the mood was grim as the Council debated their next move. For hours they had been in closed quarters, along with Bail Organa and the still-recovering Chancellor Amidala, seeking out answers to the questions they now faced.

It was a trap, that much had been established immediately. Dementor was toying with them, taunting them, trying to draw them out into the open to exploit their weaknesses. The Jedi were still far too incapacitated to launch a counter attack against the Sith.

"He is only one man," Senator Organa protested. "I see seven able-bodied Jedi before me!"

"You forget, Senator, that one man single-handedly destroyed both the Jedi and the Senate _in a day_."

"He's more powerful than we ever imagined."

"We must regain our strength," Master Ti added. "Survival is our first priority."

Both Bail and Padme bristled at her words; though Chancellor Amidala was still recovering, her fire and spirit had returned in full force.

"And what of the survival of millions of innocent people," she replied angrily. "Do they not deserve our help?"

Master Windu's voice was cold as durasteel. "It would be wise for you to calm down, Chancellor. Anger has no place here."

"With all due respect, Master Jedi," Padme said, her tone matching Windu's in intensity. "I refuse."

The circle of Council members twitched uneasily, but none spoke, so she continued.

"My people are out there _dying_ while we sit here and deliberate!"

Bail Organa nodded his agreement. "We understand your losses and grieve for them – we do – but more innocent lives will continue to perish at the hands of Kenobi unless we stop him."

"Believe me, Senator," Depa Billaba began softly, "no one wants to see Dementor destroyed more than the Jedi."

"But to rush into a known trap is foolhardy and dangerous," Mace Windu finished for his former Padawan.

Dementor's power was still too unknown to the Jedi. His abilities were still widely a mystery, but he was obviously very strongly in tune with the Dark Side of the Force.

Yet Dementor had already revealed his weakness: he was arrogant. So arrogant and confident in his power that he thought he could trap the Jedi in some elaborate plan, cornering them like a hunting nexu captures its prey.

They would exploit his weakness and use it to conquer him, but only once the time was right.

This was not that time.

But Senator Organa, displeased by the reaction he was receiving, turned toward the wisest and oldest member of the Council. "Master Yoda," he appealed, "what do you suggest?"

Master Yoda sighed and closed his eyes, his mind reaching out to the chaotic tendrils of the Force. They offered little in the way of answers, and more in the way of questions – questions that would require much meditation and communication with the Force.

One thing was certain:

"Regroup we must. Rest. Soon shall be the time for action, but not now it is."

* * *

"_Catch me…if you can."_

The words tortured him, the clipped Coruscanti accent, which had once sounded so peaceful and kind, now dripped with anger and the festering decay of the Dark Side.

The message was intended for him, Qui-Gon was certain. Obi-Wan was trying to lure him away from the Jedi, to meet on equal ground and fight for the last time.

The duel of the fates.

_Destiny._

The word had weighed heavy on his heart since his conversation with Anakin. His Padawan had been so confident in his words, so sure of the fate he was assigning to them both.

Qui-Gon did not deny that now, one with the Force, Anakin was privy to more knowledge of the Force than the Jedi Master, but he could not believe that the Force had willed _this_.

Suffering.

Despair.

Death.

No, this was not the Force he had followed since birth. It couldn't be…

Yet the voices and pictures of the What-Could-Have-Been still haunted his memories, glimpses of a universe that was the same in every aspect except one:

_Anakin_, not Obi-Wan.

Could it really be true? Had destiny decided before the dawn of time that one of them would turn? Was his death on Naboo the only deciding factor?

He had always taught his Padawans that the Force was always in motion, that they could change the future. But now he was unsure, for he had faced two different universes, and despite their circumstantial differences, the end result remained the same.

"_You were my brother, Anakin! I loved you."_

The pain in the older Obi-Wan's voice echoed in his own. He sympathized with this Obi-Wan, a man he had never met but felt as if he knew. He recognized his heart as it broke on the flaming terrain of Mustafar. It was the heart that Qui-Gon had always admired in his Padawan, the one that despite his dry humor and brooding silences, truly and deeply cared. It was the heart told Qui-Gon that his apprentice couldn't possibly be fully gone, the heart that would never let him believe it.

He heard all these things in the older Obi-Wan's voice, as he spoke to bitter, wounded Anakin.

_Betrayal._

He recognized it well now. It stung – painfully, devastatingly – but the knowledge that no matter what choices they made, their worlds would end the same was even worse.

_No_, Qui-Gon rebelled.

He could not believe in a Force that required his Padawans to lose everything and turn to the Dark Side. He would not allow it to destroy everything he had ever loved – not in this universe, not in any.

He would find a way to fix this.

Yoda's words rang in his head:

"_Drive out darkness, darkness cannot. Only light can that do. Drive out hate, hate cannot. Only love."_

Qui-Gon knew what he had to do.

* * *

Still residing in the Council meeting, Bail was beginning to tire from trying to change the Council's collective mind. He was weary of the politics at hand, and like Padme, ready for action. But the Jedi were adamant in their decision to stay and heal.

He was beginning to get a headache.

Suddenly, his comm chirped.

"Bail here," he replied.

"Senator Organa," a panicked voice on the other side of the transmission replied. The room quieted to listen. "Someone has stolen one of the starfighters and left the planet."

"Qui-Gon," Mace Windu mumbled irritably. The other Council members nodded their agreement.

"Why didn't you stop him," Bail chastised his head of security, with more than a little annoyance creeping into his voice.

"I…he – " the man on the other end paused, seemingly confused. "I think he mind-tricked me, sir."

To the side, Master Windu "hmmph'ed" as the Senator rubbed his temple. He had heard stories that Master Jinn was a maverick; the times they now lived in hadn't seemed to change that. "Gather the squad, we'll bring him back to – "

"No," Yoda interrupted firmly, causing Bail to halt mid-sentence.

"Sir?" his comlink chirped.

He quickly shushed him.

"For once I agree with the Senator," Windu declared, his face hard and his voice displeased. "We need to bring Qui-Gon back before he gets himself killed."

"No," the venerable Jedi Master said again, quietly.

"But Master Yoda – "

"Listen to me, you will," he reprimanded, pointing his gimer stick at Kit Fisto menacingly. "Go to any length to save his former Padawan, Qui-Gon Jinn will."

The Senator furrowed his brow, confused by the Jedi's words. And while it seemed some of the other Council members were confused as well, Master Windu had clearly grasped Yoda's meaning.

"You speak of redemption."

It was not a question, but Master Yoda nodded anyway.

Bail, Mace, and several other Jedi shook their heads disapprovingly. Bail did not claim to have extensive knowledge of the Jedi Way, but he knew enough to know that once a Jedi crossed over to the Dark Side, there was no returning.

"It will not happen," the stern Jedi Master replied. "Kenobi has been lost."

"Stubborn Qui-Gon has always been. A trait he passed down to his apprentices, hmm?" Yoda sighed, and then smiled slightly, as if part of a secret none else shared. "Strong in the Living Force Qui-Gon has always been. Follow its will, he must."

"And if it leads to his own demise," Adi Gallia remarked with almost a hint of disrespect.

Yoda's ear twitched, but he did not reply.


	10. Chapter Nine: Balance

Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

**Turmoil and Sacrifice**

_By Kekelina_

Chapter Nine: Balance

* * *

**HoloNet News**  
Vol. 531 #91  
14:1:35

**BREAKING NEWS: Jedi Fight Back**  
_Jedi lead resistance  
Clones fall back_

GALACTIC CITY, CORUSCANT – Two standard weeks ago the capital was horrifically and unprecedentedly attacked by Republic Enemy Number One, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and his terrifying faceless army – now known to be an army comprised entirely of clones. Hours into the attack, on the verge of victory, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord of the Sith vanished into the night, leaving behind his massive army to unleash chaos and destruction upon Coruscant.

Death tolls have skyrocketed, now reaching into the millions as those surviving struggle to find safe haven off-planet. The once-pristine capital city is now an excruciating wound in the hearts of the citizens of the Republic. Pockets of resistance have sprung up throughout the city, but so far have been unsuccessful.

However, just this morning dedicated HoloNet reporters uncovered new footage from a security vid in the lower levels. The recording, though distorted, clearly reveals a Jedi Knight disarming a squad of clone troopers with the use of a lightsaber. Continuing footage shows the Jedi rescuing a frightened group of younglings caught in the crossfire.

The reappearance of the Jedi has sprung new hope in the hearts and minds of the citizens of Coruscant. Already, more sentient beings have begun establishing larger and stronger resistance groups around the planet, and Kenobi's clones are beginning to falter.

For all the latest news from Coruscant, stay tuned to the HoloNet News Network – the galaxy's most reliable source.

* * *

Bail Organa's palace, the halls of which had been echoing with the hushed gossip of Qui-Gon's disappearance, stilled. The stunned silence spoke louder than the cries of mynock hatchlings as the Jedi unconsciously migrated to the various vidscreens posted around the palace; in larger-than-life images, the destruction of Coruscant looped like a badly written holodrama.

The charred remains of bodies mutilated by blasters still smoldering on the walkways; speeders – torn, twisted, and mutilated in fatal crashes – flames licking at the liquefied alloy. Flashes of war lighting up the overcast sky as dirty, ragged and worn sentient beings scrambled to escape the impending attack.

Behind them and behind the nameless garrison of clone troopers marching forward in unison – their stark-white armor riddled with the dirt and blood of war – stood the dismal silhouette of the once-grand Jedi Temple. Chunks of duracrete littered the front entrance. The regal statues of the Four Masters, standing firm and silent at the doors of the Temple since its reconstruction after the New Sith Wars, guarded the entry no more. They lay in pieces quietly next to their podiums, surrendering to the darkness.

"Force…" someone – perhaps Clee Rhara? – whispered as the images of their once serene residence bombarded them. But she did not look away; none of them did. For they were all mesmerized by the destruction and overwhelmed by the pain.

And, _Force_, did it hurt to see the Temple raped of its serenity, to know that one of their own had betrayed them and had purged all light from its remains.

The gardens, the fountains, the meditation rooms – all had been destroyed in a blaze of fire, scorching every good and innocent thing into restless ash. Quinlan Vos could not fathom it.

Yet the flickering images before him spoke the bleak truth. His home had been desecrated, the bodies of his family still rotted on the ground, and here he stood, helpless as his heart ached.

And still the images flickered, an unrelenting torment on his mind. To the streets now, with the wounded, dirty and bleeding, fleeing from the clones as a lightsaber hummed distinctly to life. Brilliant crystal, the omniscient sapphire glow cast long shadows upon the clone armor, creating severe, sinister angles.

Padawan Tru Veld, newly recovered, squinted hard at the distorted recording. "Is that Master Jinn," he asked of Garen Muln, who stood solemnly next to him, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand in distress.

But it was Quinlan who replied: "No," he said, his voice stoic, but the corners of his eyes crinkling in worry. "It's Aayla."

For he had known her long enough to recognize his former Padawan under almost any circumstance; the blue tint of her skin, the dips and twists of her body as she flew through the aggressive and rigorous phases of Ataru were all signature of the Twi'lek Knight.

He was relieved to discover that she was alive – that she had survived Kenobi's brutal attack – but worry, thick and choking, soon replaced it. As one Jedi against a thousand clones, she would not last long on Coruscant. The odds were not in her favor.

It was a foolish risk, and an unnecessary one at that. Quinlan knew he was not the only Jedi who believed the remaining Order should have returned to Coruscant immediately, to take back the Republic and deal swift justice to Kenobi and his army.

Even now, the idea that Obi-Wan Kenobi was in charge of his own army was preposterous – laughable, even. The Obi-Wan with whom he had grown up had never enjoyed the aggressive nature of war. He had always been one to negotiate, to seek a quiet, bloodless solution. Yes, he had been stubborn and a bit too aggressive at times, but never had he sought his own satisfaction through bloodshed. But the Dark Side of the Force was malicious and took delight in destroying people.

"Will this change the Council's mind?" The Padawan again, hanging suspiciously close to Garen, his eyes wide and hungry for direction and advice after the death of his Master, Ry-Gaul. Perhaps, Quinlan mused, once this was all over they would make a strong Master-Padawan team. But the Knight either did not notice or did not acknowledge the Padawan's yearnings. His eyes were dark, brooding as he sought insight into the will of the Jedi Council.

Quinlan, of course, already knew the answer. Despite all its good, the Jedi Council held firm to convention. Decisions, though solid when delivered, were slow to come. Stubborn, maverick Jedi such as Qui-Gon and Quinlan had long given up on the vast waiting game they were forced to play and instead took council in the Force on their own terms.

Quinlan did not place blame on Master Jinn for vanishing into the night. Had their roles been reversed, and had – Force-forbid – Aayla turned to the Dark Side and seized the Republic by slaughtering thousands of innocent lives, he knew he would stop at nothing to put an end to his misguided Padawan. It was his duty as her Master.

* * *

Darkness crept, slowly and surely through the long halls of the Alderaanian palace. Shadows grew, then consumed the elegant architecture as the hour grew late. Quiet, at first unrestless as the Jedi settled into uneasy sleep, purging themselves of the last of the emotions they had carried throughout the day, became steady and tranquil. The Force sang softly across the halls as the Jedi slept peacefully, flowing about like a gently bubbling brook.

Yoda's heart was relieved as he settled into deep meditation. For too long had he felt the disturbance of nightmares invade the shimmering waters of the Force – whimpers from the younglings as the tragedy continued to accost them in their subconscious and even restless fear from the older, wiser Jedi, who still dealt with the pain of loss.

A younger Yoda, one who had sat at the foremost chair on the Jedi High Council, one who had not seen his beloved children slaughtered by one of their own, would've chastised his fellow Jedi for allowing emotions to cloud their connection to the Force. _Look at Kenobi_, he would've said. _See how emotions rule him do you?_

But that Yoda was buried underneath the heartache of hypocritical attachment. For all his lectures on the danger of attachment, the times now only confirming what he preached, Yoda himself had been attached to each and every one of the Jedi. He had carried them with him every day of their lives, feeling their presences through the pulsating Force. And he had felt their deaths, as one-by-one they crumpled to the ground in unyielding agony, their spirit and presence releasing into the Force.

He carried them now in memory, their faces in his mind's eye, as he wept tearlessly for them.

Yet not all of the fallen Jedi were content to remain peaceful and formless in the still oceans of the Force. Stubborn and hard-headed since the day they had first met, Anakin Skywalker had never been one to accept defeat.

_A trait nurtured and refined by Qui-Gon, I think._

"So soon we meet again, young Skywalker," Yoda mused as the faint sapphire glow of Anakin's ethereal form cast long shadows in the otherwise darkened room. "More questions have you?"

Even in death, Anakin still towered over Yoda. The blue ghost bent down on his transparent knee, eyes, now closer in height to his own, curiously trying to decipher the stoic Jedi Master's face. His Padawan braid still swung with each movement, as if touched by the vibrations in the air.

So curious this reincarnation of Skywalker was. Though he had long since learned to accept that the Force worked in mysterious ways, Yoda would be lying to himself if he did not admit the reappearance of the young Padawan perplexed him. In all his nine-hundred years of life, he had never heard even the slightest whisper of such ability. To remain on this plane of existence after returning to the netherworld of the Force spoke of powers beyond imagine – powers that only the Chosen One possessed.

Anakin, it seemed, thought little of the development. Perhaps it had been effortless for the deceased Jedi – a discarded wish as he passed into the Force. However, this was all simply speculation on the aging Jedi Master's part. Anakin had not spoken of the details of his return and Yoda had been loath to ask it of him. The Force would reveal the answers in due time.

"I was listening to you," Anakin admitted sheepishly, years of Jedi training still imbedded in his mind, "in the Council meeting." He paused, as if expecting a reprimand for spying on the oldest and wisest members of the now crumbling Jedi Order. But none came. "You said Master Qui-Gon had gone to try to redeem Kenobi."

Yoda nodded, his expression solemn as he remembered their conversation in the makeshift Council chambers. He had received much resistance from his fellow Jedi – more than he would've liked.

"Is it possible, Master?" The ghost of Anakin Skywalker sounded unsure, speaking slowly, as if dreading the answer. "Can a fallen Jedi really turn back to the Light?"

But the venerable Jedi felt as unsure as Anakin sounded. Like all questions he now faced, he had no definitive answers, just the persistent prodding of the Force.

Darth Dementor still had a part to play in the grand scheme; for good or evil, Yoda did not know. The Force whispered to him of choices for the young Sith Lord – choices which would define the fate of the galaxy.

"An absolute Obi-Wan Kenobi is not," he replied cryptically. "Neither wholly light nor wholly dark. So it is for all."

Anakin was not satisfied with his answer. He shifted, anxious and annoyed. "He murdered the Jedi and the Senate, Master," he spat with more than a hint of disgust. Death, it seemed, had not rid him of such strong emotions. "He is _evil_."

The sage Jedi Master was pensive, withdrawn in his thoughts. Around him, the Force swirled its discontent, but he did not have the sight to discern why. "Think so you do?"

"He must be destroyed. Balance must be restored."

"Ah," the Jedi pondered, amused. For nearly a thousand years those words had been repeated with reverence and certainty by the Jedi. Deciphered to only consist of one meaning, the prophecy had been a beacon of light against the darkness. But the Jedi had grown complacent, with their fate definitively resting on the shoulders of one man:

A man who was now a ghost.

The Jedi could afford to be complacent no longer. "Ask this of you I do: what means balance?"

The Chosen One blinked, his vision narrowed as he eyed Yoda with caution. "Balance is the destruction of the Dark Side – the return of the light."

His voice rang with confidence, repeating the oft-spoken mantra which had been placed on his shoulders at such a young age. Perhaps too much had been required of him, too soon. "And if true this is, could not also redemption destroy Dementor?"

"Well…" he hesitated, caught off-guard. "Yes, I guess."

Yoda murmured his pensive agreement, allowing his thoughts to trail to the dull, pressing insistence of the Force. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together, the larger picture beginning to focus into view. But still there was something missing, a dejarik player still sitting on the sidelines. Yoda was blind to its purpose, but he felt its absence. The end was near, but not quite yet.

Anakin's voice broke his thoughts. "Master Yoda, what other meaning of balance could there be?"

"Gone is Sidious," he replied quietly. "Gone are you. Few are the Jedi that remain, and few are the Sith." His wide, sad brown eyes met Anakin's. "Balance too, is this not?"

Anakin was silent, speechless. The air surrounding him was filled with doubt and uncertainty. It permeated the Force, wrenching it thick with its sludge. "Worried I am too, that this is true," Yoda muttered. "Decisive these next days will be for the future of the Jedi. Your role in this, done it is not."

The Padawan nodded. "What would you have me do?"

For a moment, he was silent, allowing the Force to show him the path. "Watch over Qui-Gon you must," he settled finally. "Need you now more than ever he will."

Anakin replied, "Yes, Master," and then the ghostly blue light dimmed and vanished.


	11. Chapter Ten: Two Sides of the Same Coin

Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything. The _Jedi Apprentice_ series belongs to Jude Watson and Scholastic.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

**Turmoil and Sacrifice**

_By Kekelina_

Chapter Ten: Two Sides of the Same Coin

* * *

Security forces were en route to Nar Shaddaa within a day of Dementor's transmission. They came in droves from across the galaxy, first from Druckenwell and Bothawui, and then the farther Core Worlds, including Corellia and Onderon. The Hutts balked at their presence, insisting that the Republic forces remove themselves from Hutt Space immediately, to no avail. The Republic guards teemed across the Smuggler's Moon with little regard for the Hutts, vigorously searching for the cunning Sith Lord.

Foolish, pitiful, predictable creatures. He had long since departed the rotting wasteland of greed and deceit and jumped into hyperspace, safe once again from the Republic's diminutive forces. It was almost too easy to avoid them; their minds were unintelligent and weak. They possessed as much knowledge of strategy as a herd of bildogs. They were easily manipulated, and it would work to his advantage.

He would let them chase him, let them believe they were triumphant in frightening him into remission, when in actuality, they were merely pawns in his scheme. For with every painstakingly obvious step he took, with every planet he destroyed, every family he murdered, he would move closer to his true destination: the Core Worlds, specifically Alderaan.

The subtle whisper of the Force, like a lover in his ear, had drawn him to this dastardly plan. _To Alderaan_, it cooed. _To the last of the Jedi._

He had fled foolishly after Coruscant, fearful of retaliation from a dilapidated Order. Self-preservation had gotten the better of him, an echo of the dying Jedi inside of him, feebly trying to crawl his way out. Some nights, in the dark solitude of space, as he reached for the everlasting icy grip of the Dark Side, he could feel him retching, overcome by the vile power. He would thrash against his mind, screaming – pleading – to be freed. Sometimes the quiet voice of the deceased Siri Tachi would encourage the battered, broken Jedi.

It was these nights that Dementor feared, when the lingering traces of Obi-Wan Kenobi struggled to escape.

At first, it had been easy to ignore the mewling Jedi and his cries. They had been frail, hardly peskier than a persistent itch. But his strength had grown over time, emboldened by the Light's desperate effort to renew him, and what had once been nothing more than a passing thought had become a full-scale war upon his psyche.

In his mind, the Jedi thrashed. He lurched against the Dark Side, and struggled to counter-attack it with the Light. Dementor could _feel_ his wretched attempts to draw in the intoxicating righteousness of the Force. The bright white tendrils nauseated him; often, he felt the galaxy spinning, and would have to forcefully stop himself from moving until the vertigo passed. It was then, when he was at his weakest, that the Jedi would begin to beseech him to turn back. Death and destruction is not worth the reward, he would say. _Revenge has gained you nothing._

Dementor would smirk then, his wild yellow eyes flaming with passion and emotion, as he laughed away the Jedi's naivety. Revenge had given him the swift deaths of Anakin Skywalker and most of the Jedi. It had brought never-ending guilt-ridden pain to Qui-Gon Jinn. It had created a galaxy ruled by unrelenting fear and destruction. Even now, the capital lay in ruins as chaos ruled its streets. The Jedi were still too shamed by their defeat to rescue the crumbling city and its condemned inhabitants.

Inside, he could feel Obi-Wan weeping in anguish, overcome by grief, despair and guilt. Dementor knew the Jedi blamed himself for everything that had transpired. He relentlessly chastised himself for being weak and succumbing to the delusions of Darth Sidious. The Sith did not disagree, for it had been the Jedi's own feeble, pathetic will that had created the monster within. _A proper Jedi_, he taunted, _would have rather sacrificed himself than become what I have become. _Obi-Wan would grow silent then, mournful, and for a few moments there would be peace in his tremulous mind.

But the silence would not last, and their wicked dance would continue, as always ending in an impasse. They were the light and the dark – two sides of the same coin – lost in a myriad of stalemates. Neither could win while the other survived.

Oh, how relentlessly he had tried to destroy the feeble wisp of the decaying Jedi Knight. But Obi-Wan was stronger than he gave him credit for, and he withstood every onslaught of terror that the Sith threw at him. No matter how disgustingly putrefying and vile its rank stench was as Dementor sank into the oozing black pit of despair, the Jedi remained. His stomach churned and his head ached like the pounding of tribal drums, but still he stood fast like a weatherworn statue.

Dementor, for one, was beginning to tire of their cruel symbiotic relationship. He had grown to dread the voice that pleadingly whispered to him in the dead of night, _you can change. _He resented the memories the Jedi forced him to relive – happy memories of happier times.

Just him and Qui-Gon.

_No_, Dementor would scream silently, thrashing against the assault. His memories with Qui-Gon had never been happy. Bandomeer. Telos. Melida/Daan. New Apsolon. Worlds haunted by his failure to be the perfect Padawan Qui-Gon Jinn required. He had always been too rash, too angry, too passionate, and in later years, too stodgy and bent on following the Code to the letter. Nothing he did had ever been enough for the man who required everything and gave nothing in return. All he had wanted was Qui-Gon's approval, but when the time had come, he had abandoned him for someone better.

Anakin may have been the best Padawan Qui-Gon had taught, but now Dementor was the best of the worst. Even Xanatos and his great escape could not compare with the wretched destruction he had wrought. If he could not hear his former Master shower him with praise, then he wanted to hear him howl in rage. For he had done this – all of this – to prove one simple thing to the hallowed Qui-Gon Jinn:

He could be the best at something, even if that thing was taking over the galaxy.

The Qui-Gon's expression as he murdered his Padawan and stole his leg had been vindication enough. Heartbreak. Betrayal. Grief. Guilt. All of them deliciously apparent on the usually stoic Jedi Master's face. _So_, he had whispered to himself. _You do feel pain_. Too often as a Padawan he had wondered if his Master had cared about anything or anyone. For he had often worn a mask of apathy across his face, and kind words had been few and far between.

Or perhaps it had just been young, vulnerable Obi-Wan of whom Qui-Gon had disproved, his patent Jedi serenity concealing his brutal disdain.

Always more questions to which he did not know the answers. Despite their thirteen long years together, his Master had always been a mystery, and even now, with the power that Dementor held, he doubted he would discover the answers. He wasn't sure he wanted them now; the time for truth had passed, and the time for action leaped forward.

He would destroy the last of the cowardly Jedi right in front of Qui-Gon's cold eyes. He would force his former Master to watch in bleeding silence as he killed his friends and family. _This,_ he imagined himself cooing in his clipped Coruscanti accent, standing atop a mountain of rotten corpses, _is your fault, Qui-Gon Jinn. All of it is your fault._ Qui-Gon would not argue; perhaps he would pale and shiver, remembering similar words spoken by a similar man.

"_You destroyed me because you could not save me. I am your biggest failure. Live with this."_

He could feel the time approaching, and the final pieces beginning to fall into place. Surely by now Qui-Gon had sprang into action against him, feverishly searching the throes of the galaxy for the Sith Lord. Perhaps now he scoured Nar Shaddaa along with security forces, aggressively pursuing any thin thread of hope.

Too late. Dementor had already successfully demolished any and all links to himself and his business on the Smuggler's Moon. They were blind nexu chasing a wily bark rat; they would never catch him. But it was the chase that mattered.

He pulled the nearly-forgotten holopic out of the pocket hidden in his black robes and lightly traced the holographic faces with the soft tips of his fingers. _The Naberries, _the caption read in plain script. The Dark Side sang in anticipation of his evil deeds. He would be stirring up a wild nest of gundarks, going after an innocent family whose only crime had been giving birth to the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. If possible, it would burn more hatred into the hearts of the people, and secure his place as the most reprehensible man in the galaxy. Hatred would saturate the universe, and the fires of the Dark Side would rage.

_No, Obi-Wan; don't_.

The Sith snarled, baring his teeth as he turned on his heel. There was no one in sight, as he stood outside the peaceful cottage of Ruwee and Jobal Naberrie. There never was, and yet the voice – _her_ voice – still whispered, pleading to the suppressed Jedi within him to take up arms against the monster and put an end to him. But the Jedi was weak and the Dark Side surge through his veins like a burning virus, contaminating every cell inside him. He pulsed with the dark energy, emboldened by the scalding heat and acute awareness of blood rising in his flesh.

_You must stop,_ she breathed, but the terrified shrieks of his victims drowned out her desperate plea.

* * *

Four parsecs away, grim with defeat, Qui-Gon watched as the HoloNet reported the gruesome murders of Chancellor Amidala's entire family, including her two young nieces, at the hands of Darth Dementor. Grief welled up inside him, but he pushed it away, releasing it back into the Force with barely a thought.

Naboo. Obi-Wan was on Naboo.

With grace not expected from such a large man, he leapt from his seat and strode through the city with renewed purpose.


End file.
